batface's Open Salon Blog

My New Hero

Tue, 3 Mar 2009 18:03:32 -0500

Meet Craig Grant, founder of Caboodle Ranch. The 30-acre property is home to 500 unwanted felines. Using money out of his own pocket, Grant built an entire kitty-town, complete with lakefront cabins

http://www.zootoo.com/petnews/walmartfelinetownbuiltfor500ca-1128

http://caboodleranch.com

Bad therapy

Mon, 2 Mar 2009 00:03:03 -0500

Therapy in the 21st century has lost almost all stigma. Ann Landers- or whoever writes her column now- regularly advises writers to seek therapy (often in 100 words or less). Therapy is seen as the panacea for most ills: marriage difficulties, career issues and of course- depression. But no one talks much about what happens during therapy. Or what happens when therapy ends, Or when therapy does not help you.

It is almost seems that after that first step of seeking help, no further advice is needed. The position of healer is sacred in our society, physician and therapist are accorded respect and still seem to have the air of magic about them.

I saw my first therapist when I was in college. She was an intern, earning her hours and not much older than I was. I paid her $10 a session. She almost never spoke. She was the stereotype of an analyst, I would talk for an hour and she would occasionally interject "How did that make you feel?". I once told her I preferred more feedback but that didn't change her approach. In retrospect, I think she was very young and afraid of making mistakes. After a year she moved on and I was offered another intern therapist. I declined as my depression had not diminished over that year. I met the new intern once but she seemed even younger and less confident.

I had a couple other therapists after this but the conclusion was much the same. None were as quiet as the first, but I spoke most of the time. It was nice to have someone listen and it was useful to be accountable to someone on a regular basis but the benefits of therapy seemed limited. I felt like there was something wrong with me, I was failing therapy. I wasn't doing it right.

Then I met "Hugh" as I will call him. From our first meeting I knew he was different. He had long hair and was English. He told me he had been in a famous band but had dropped out before their success. He never told me the name and I never asked.

After I came back from living in the UK, I became depressed. I resettled in San Francisco, went back on SSRIs and met a wonderful man. I felt the best I ever had. But I thought in order to prevent future depression, I needed to see a therapist and get to the bottom of this. So I began to see Hugh.

After a year, there was nothing to report. I was enjoying my new life although I was very frustrated with my job. I felt like I wasn't getting a lot out of therapy and expressed this to Hugh. He suggested I stop taking antidepressants. I was hesitant. This was my fourth time on them and I was sick of going on and off medication. I also was relatively happy with my current life.

Hugh insisted that unless I went off medication and found out exactly what was at the heart of my depression, I would suffer from depression for the rest of my life. If I stayed on medication, I would just be in maintenance mode. There would be nowhere for me to go. Those who stopped meds, who went to the dark side and survived, were warriors. They were brave. And most importantly they were depression-free. He had seen it many times, in himself and in others. I would be Orpheus descending, Demeter entering the underworld.

He was really into visualizations and other techniques. He spoke of shamanism and of taking ayahuasca in the Peruvian rain forest. He strongly recommended something called authentic movement. Basically I stood there with three other women while we moved however we felt for an hour or so. After, the woman leading the group ( I can't remember if she was a therapist or not) would comment. The other women would leap and dance around. I lay on the floor curled into a ball.

He mocked my relationship with the man I loved saying it was not spiritual, that it was a happy meal when I could have filet mignon.

I was 26. I trusted him. He was the expert, the professional. I wanted to be free, to be whole, to be spiritual. I stopped my meds. I descended down. I got more and more depressed. So depressed I lost my job. I lost the man I loved.

I asked Hugh if I should go on meds but he insisted my breakthrough was right around the corner. He advised me to go on a 10 day silent vispassna retreat. We meditated for 14 hours a day and fasted after noon. I did this for three days. On the fourth day, I had to leave due to my depression.

As I explained in an earlier post, I told Hugh to go fuck himself and resumed meds. I am better than I was but I am far from whole.

Everyone talks about the side effects from meds. What about the side effects of bad therapy?

Suggested OS change

Fri, 20 Feb 2009 11:02:37 -0500

..........only cat related posts.

In Defense of Psychotropic Drugs

Wed, 18 Feb 2009 23:02:03 -0500

My relationship with anti-depressants is complicated, I read widely and I know that they often perform little better than placebo. There may be long term side effects that we just don't know about yet. No one likes BIG PHARM and it is hard not to be suspicious of researchers and physicians that receive funding or other benefits from the industry. However, these pills have simply saved my life. They alllow me to function when nothing else will. (I am only on expert on my own experiences). Mild depression may remit completely with exercise and fresh food, talk therapy or simply by the passage of time. But when you are severely depressed and cannot get out of bed, it is almost impossible to recover with these methods- at least in my case.

My first depression occurred at 19. I was an impoverished student though financial aid made me better off than at home. I had no insurance. I couldn't afford therapy, even on a sliding scale. And to be honest I was too ashamed to go to therapy. I had been brought up to believe only truly crazy people do that. I found a nice physician who gave me free samples of Prozac for a few months and my mom scraped together some funds for a few more. The change was remarkable. I had been unable to get out of bed and would weep for hours on end. That year, I ended up studying abroad (I had never been out of my home state) and had my first boyfriend at the age of 20.

I ran out of the meds around Christmastime and wasn't able to get any over the holidays. I went through a light withdrawal since I hadn't tapered off - I slept for about 2 weeks straight- but after this period I felt ok. I was actually kind of relieved to be off the medication. Now I could be normal.

The pattern continued. I got depressed to the point of not functioning. I sought out the cheapest therapy I could - students on a sliding scale - and when I was working I paid for a Cognitive Behavioral Therapy professional well respected in the field. I didn't drink, I didn't smoke, I ate healthy and exercised. I took my vitamins. I read self help books by the bushel. I would get to the point of no return, of no functioning, not being able to work, to interact with the world at any level and I would have no option left but anti-depressants. I was very conflicted and would discontinue as soon as possible, tapering off and under the care of a doctor. I would also read books on the evils of pharmaceuticals, often as I consumed them.

Eight years ago I started seeing a therapist-in-training who was anti-medication. He was very "new age" and believed in many alternative therapies. I was taking medication at the time at a very low dose and was a bit tired of the see sawing on and off medication. I was deeply in love with a man for the first time. But the therapist insisted I not take medication. I readily complied. I tried many of the therapies and tactics he promoted. After a while I began to get depressed. I got lower and lower. I lost my job. I lost the man I love. I almost lost my mind.

I would ask him, "Should I go on medication?" and he would say "No, not yet. You need to descend into the darkness first and then come through reborn." Yes, he actually said that. Our relationship was more like guru/ disciple. Myths figured quite heavily.

I got to the point where I couldn't go on. I went to see him. He wanted to commit me to a hospital. I did one of the bravest things I have ever done. I fired him. I walked out and made an appointment with a psychiatrist. I started on Lexapro. The therapist called me many times, told me to come back. I never spoke to him again.

There is something called kindling. Basically each depressive episode you have increases the probability that you will have a future episode. At 4-5 prior episodes, my probability is roughly 90%. For people like me, it is better to stay on medication than to keep going on and off. I have accepted that I will probably be on medication for the rest of my life. I am lucky. I have virtually no short term side effects and as for long term effects - well, they look better than a mental hospital or suicide whatever they end up being.

One thing that has been hard to accept is that I have never fully recovered from that last episode. At most I have achieved 50% remission. I've increased doses and switched medications but have never gone above 50%. The most troubling symptom is my fatigue. I can drink espresso and lie there like a log. I am an old woman in my 30s. I exercise regularly, eat well and have seen different therapists. I seem to have plateau'd out. Its been 6 years. I am 34.

Do I accept half a life?

Come On Now Be Social

Mon, 16 Feb 2009 22:02:15 -0500

I was tempted to rest on my laurels. I had done 3 loads of laundry in 2 days after all.

And it was raining like a mofo here. In retrospect, if I had known how wet it was outside there was no way I woulda gone. It was a Sunday and I would need to make two public transport connections. But a dear friend of mine was packing up and moving to another state and this was her good bye party. If I had missed this one, I would have lost some serious friend cred in my group. Friend cred which often feels like it is already on shaky ground. And there was the fact that I hadn't done anything remotely social for over a week and had stayed in Friday and Saturday nights .

So I made myself go, although I had been lying in bed at 5pm. (I lie the opposite way so it doesn't feel quite so indulgent, plus I sleep better). It takes a big wad of focus for me to go out. I made myself a cuppa. I had about a 1/3 of a decent cabernet left. I poured it and tried to find something to wear. Although I now had clean clothes!, finding an outfit to wear to go out is sometimes a challenge.

Most of my clothes are for comfort or practicality, and I don't have budget to go much outside that. Plus I seem to spill coffee or wine on anything nice. But I find a suitable shirt. Ironically, it is not one of the recently washed. It was only worn a couple times before I got a coffee stain on it. I realize I have this one high waisted skirt that I can pull over the shirt and it will hide the stain.

I grew up more tomboy than anything else and often feel like I'm missing certain key female genes. I cannot paint a nail to save my life. I did not wear makeup until I hit 30 or so. Before that, its application mystified me and I felt I had better things to spend my money or time on. I still usually only wear it when I go out but on a bad day, a little makeup can make me feel more alive. Perhaps it adds a bit of a mask to my already acting persona. It only takes 5 minutes or so to apply but I am already running late.

An hour, two trains and a whole lot of wet later, I am at my friends with a bottle of pinot. They are leaving the following day so there is no furniture and we sit on the floor which is fun. My friend is a bit of a foodie and I had counted on food being provided, which is not the case. I hope the little bit of leftover mac and cheese I had will dilute the effect of the wine. This is the problem about going out. Unless I keep drinking a bit of wine, I will pretty much fall asleep - especially in a group. Or my conversation will resemble that of a catatonic.

I don't get drunk but I pretty much drink the equivalent of a bottle of wine over the course of the evening. I have an ok time. I catch up with a few friends. I speak to some people I don't know well. I meet a gal from my home town. A lot of my friends are very direct. I can be sensitive and occasionally their words annoy me. I get cornered by a friend who has had her own depression struggles but is currently doing really well. She gets after me for not exercising and for no longer going to therapy. I try to respond to these scolds but I've had a bit of wine and I just agree. I know she is planning a trip to vegas for a big birthday and although I wouldn't go, I'm a little sad she hasn't invited me. Another friend drives me home.

I wake up at 12:21 pm. With a little headache. Some of that time was spent snuzzling with Nigel, not sleeping. I'm not really hung over just tired. Today is going to be a wash. Being social takes so much out of me. I almost don't think it is worth it but then a week goes by. I don't want to isolate myself.